“What?” Olive said. “I didn’t even speak yet.”
“I know that look. Whatever it is, no.”
“It’s a good idea,” Olive said.
“You’ve been hanging around April too much,” Ramona said.
“Two words. Costume. Bowling,” Olive said, flourishing her hand down her 1920s garb, then sat back and folded her arms triumphantly.
“Yes,” Marley said, clapping once. “I’m in.”
“Olive,” Ramona said.
“You have a ton of costumes,” Olive said, then waved her hand at Dylan. “Dress her up. Change her name like she wants!”
“Oh, I’m intrigued,” Dylan said, then tilted her head at Ramona. “Costumes?”
“Clothes,” Ramona said quickly, that guilty prick in her chest jabbing at her again. Still, theywereclothes. “From when I was at RISD.”
“Oh, yeah, apparel design,” Dylan said, nodding.
Olive lifted her brow at Ramona but said nothing.
“What kinds of clothes?” Dylan asked. “The kind where I could go by, I don’t know,Dolly, and have platinum blonde hair?”
Ramona’s mouth dropped open, adrenaline flooding her system like someone just popped up from behind the counter and yelledboo.
Dolly.
That night flashed back to her for the millionth time in the last thirty-six hours, the two of them young and hungry and dancing under the stars.
She got her breath back, watched Dylan for a second for any sign of recognition, but Dylan just smiled at her, eyebrows raised, waiting for Ramona to say something.
And she realized Dylan would never find Cherry in Ramona’s face or voice or eyes. She wouldn’t recognize anything about her, because Dylan probably didn’t remember Dolly or Lolli or Cherry anyway, and Ramona had known that from the second Dylan walked through the door yesterday morning.
Why would she?
Whyshouldshe?
And now, eighteen years later, why shouldn’t present-day Ramona take this opportunity in front of her? Grab it with both hands, fingers curled tight, and run with it all the way to Noelle Yang.
Therewasno reason. April was right. Dylan wasDylan Monroe, and she was a celebrity, child of icons, the topic of conversation wherever she went. At the end of the summer, she’d leave, never come back, and forget Ramona all over again.
But Ramona…Ramona would still be here, waiting tables at Clover Moon. And as much as she loved Clover Lake, she wantedmore. Or different. She wanted both—her home and her dream. She wanted both so damn much. Hadn’t realized how much until this very second, everything suddenly so clear—Olive leaving her soon, her father with his own life.
She needed her own life too. No matter how terrifying it was, no matter what she had to do to get it. Noelle fucking Yang was in her town. Here. In Clover Lake. Probably no more than a mile or two away at this very moment.
“You know what?” she said, tossing her towel onto the counter and literally sticking out her chest a little. “Let’s go costume bowling.”
Dylan Monroe wasin Ramona’s room.
It was strange, even more strange than walking with the famous child of rock icons through the woods or helping her brew coffee. This was Ramona’s space, the place where she’d even dreamed about Dylan—well, ofLolli—too many times to count. Now, as the sun set behind the trees in Ramona’s backyard, gold and pink filtering through the window, Dylan made the room she’d slept in all her life feel small, as though Dylan were a too-bright lamp switched on in a dark room.
She was also just…Dylan.
A person wandering around a bedroom and looking at photographs and prints hanging on the wall.
“Olive plays softball?” she asked, picking up a photo of Olive and Ramona at the state championship two years ago, Olive still in braces, her freckles pronounced after the season.
